


you were the song (stuck in my head)

by therearenights



Category: Block B, Show Me the Money (Korea TV), Winner (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-09
Updated: 2017-07-09
Packaged: 2018-11-29 21:30:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11449431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therearenights/pseuds/therearenights
Summary: Jiho is writing a chart-buster. Suddenly it's complicated.





	you were the song (stuck in my head)

The beat was wrong.

"Jiho," Kyung's voice seemed remarkably composed considering... well, everything. "Woo Jiho. I'm talking to you, Woo Jiho."

Jiho pulled the snapback over his face until everything went dark and set the chair spinning. That didn't make Kyung's digitized - and yet, no less annoying - presence disappear. The phone's loudspeaker vibrated at him with impatience, and it was quite possible that Jiho should've caught those thirty minutes of sleep last night, because ascribing emotions to a piece of plastic with a microchip was maybe going too far. Though it was a clever microchip and some costly plastic: they even put a stethoscope app in there, wasn't that crazy?

"New phone," he mumbled. "Who's this."

Kyung's long-suffering sigh would set even a saint's teeth on edge.

"We're gonna be late."

"Busy now. Important things here. Shoo. Go away."

"You're a shitty leader, you know that?"

"The fuck? I'm a magnificent leader!" Jiho's reaction was too loud, half instinct and half overcaffeination, but Kyung was going for the jugular.

"Right now you're a magnificent asshole," he did sound weary and Jiho would relate, but refused to; it was the principle of the thing. "The meeting's in an hour. Get the fuck out of there."

If Jiho had some sleep and some actual food, and maybe a shower in the last forty eight hours, he would've thought harder before he opened his big fucking mouth. But the beat was all wrong, has been wrong for a while now and nothing he tried seemed to work. He was bound to snap.

"Yeah, sure, and who's gonna finish this track? You maybe?" The words spilled like acid, bled through his mouth and etched into the walls of the studio, into the scuffed DAW table in front of him. "In time for the comeback? Oh wait, if you only could!"

"Actually," Kyung didn't even pause and that made Jiho angry again, mostly at himself. Had he really become such an asshole that his friends got used to this shit? "the odds are the track will finish itself just to escape the sheer boredom, because you've been stalling for weeks. Get the fuck out, I said. The car's waiting. You don't want to get stuck in the traffic with me, Jiho, do you?"

Jiho was running low on imagination by now, but memory still served him well, and he shuddered thinking back to all the monumental guilt-trips Kyung had sent him on over the years by merely talking at him for half an hour in his calm and oh so reasonable voice, which could make you think an apology by the way of gutting yourself with a dessert spoon was a perfectly proportional response to any band-related grievances.

"Fuck you," he said grudgingly, giving up any pretense at attitude, hollow and tired. "I'll be there in five, gotta piss."

"You do that," the satisfaction was clear in Kyung's voice, but tempered with relief enough for Jiho to let it pass. He shoved his feet into well-worn, comfortable Nikes and zipped the hoodie up to his nose. The beat kept pulsing through the stale air, shimmery with early morning light that trickled in thin streams through the gaps in the window blinds. The last offset Jiho concocted out of desperation still seemed out of place, nothing Jiho could put his finger on, just... not right. He copied the sample to the phone, shut the laptop and put on the blackest shades he could find. The door closed behind him with a sad click, and he tumbled down the stairs ignoring the elevator. total_bs_18.aiff splashed into the net's fathomless depths followed by a couple of angry emojis. Jiho hunched his shoulders, bending forward to shield the face against the cruel June sun and ducked into the car. Thank fuck for the tinted windows.

Kyung looked at him once and went back to scrolling through the news feed. Jiho opened his mouth to apologize, but nothing came out. He did his best impression of a fish out of water, geared up for the second attempt - and then the phone plinked at him: once, twice, three times. He looked at the messages and felt his lips twitching.

_sounds just about the same_

_u should just sleep on it, hyung_

_don't forget to eat or ur gonna drop dead_

_and Jihoon's gonna cry_

_like u won't, u cry baby_ , Jiho shot back.

_in ur dreams, hyung~_

The emoji that followed bore an uncanny resemblance to Minho's most impudent grin, and Jiho couldn't help himself, he snickered into the hoodie's thick black cotton, took a selfie kissing his middle finger and sent it, still snickering. The car rolled through Seoul's morning traffic, smooth and steady, muffling the wrong beat in his head.

***

His mood soured again the moment they entered the building. No way Kyung wouldn't notice if Jiho suddenly took the stairs all the way up to the fifth floor, so elevator it was. Jiho stepped in first, head low, hands deep in the hoodie's pockets and leaned on the mirrored wall with all the nonchalance he could muster. The phone case in his palm grew sticky, like it was melting into his skin, and Jiho clutched it harder, keeping irrational fears and stupid thoughts at bay. He kept looking at the floor to avoid the mirrors around him, but the glossy black coating reflected his own pale, formless face, a weak presence in the shadows, almost as if his real place was there, drowning below the surface. Eyes closed, he pressed 'play' on the phone. The beat, still undeniably wrong, flared up in the earplug, and the headache Jiho ignored for a while now uncoiled from the back of his skull, probing at the temples and behind his eyes.

They went through the open-space, bowing and receiving bows in return. Everyone was so busy - making calls, furiously typing something, running back and forth with heaps of printouts - but instead of lifting Jiho up as usual, all this hustle and bustle made him feel small, out of place, itchy. At the end of the corridor the frosted doors to the conference room stood half-open, and Jiho forced himself to keep up with Kyung's quick purposeful stride. He went in, bowing again, and chose the seat on the left, next to a big potted plant that always seemed to him fake as hell, but sometimes the earth in the pot was wet and somebody kept wiping the dust off the broad thick leaves, and Jiho was half-convinced it was an elaborate ploy to drive him crazy on the administration's part. He obsessively checked the phone, knowing full well he wasn't going to find a new message. Well, okay, crazier.

The marketing team shuffled in one by one, armed with laptops, and tablets, and vitamin jellies, and energy drinks. Jiho nodded some, smiled some and made small talk, maintaining the illusion of being engaged. The demo kept drilling a hole in his head. The kicks were okay, totally in place, and that weird gayageum sample he found weaved in and out like a tease, slowed down and unexpectedly sensual. He even managed to coax something new out of the synths, the effect was tricky, but it worked. All that was left was the bass line. It remained elusive for weeks, and the empty spaces were grating, made the whole thing sound half-baked and cheap. Jiho tapped his fingers on the table to fill the gaps, but that didn't help. 

The phone plinked again, and Jiho swiped the screen embarrassingly fast.

_Don't you even dare._

He looked across the room where Kyung sat, a phone in his hands, that virtuous fucking smile in place, eyes slightly narrowed and tracking Jiho's every twitch.

 _Fuck off_ , Jiho mouthed and Kyung's smile grew even more pleasant.

_Do your work properly, then you can wallow as much as you want._

Jiho's eyebrows went all the way up.

_i'm writing. not that i xpect u to understand_

Kyung closed his eyes for a brief second, probably rolled them too, dickweed. Sometimes Jiho's best friend was also his worst headache and no matter how many years passed, they still managed to press each other's buttons with unerring accuracy.

_You're wallowing._

_shut up_

_Moping._

_i dont know u_

_Pining. Jiho, for God's sake._

That one would hurt if Jiho wasn't perfectly aware of the fact that yes, indeed, he was pining like a pimply sixteen-year-old: right in the middle of producing a comeback album, planning a tour in Japan and laying down the groundwork for his next solo. Sometimes it felt like standing naked in the middle of nowhere, watching the clouds gather on the horizon and suspecting the forecast lied when it promised a gentle summer shower in the afternoon.

 _idk what ur talking abt_ , Jiho folded his arms and sat back in the chair, the phone heavy as a stone in his pocket.

Kyung bit his lip, paused for a second and then started typing again, much to Jiho's horror, but thankfully the marketing people finally woke up and the meeting rolled on, and on, and on, leaving Kyung no spare moment to put down something Jiho wasn't ready to pick up at the moment, not with him of all people. Jiho was fine with all the sorry excuses he invented on the spot whenever they got dangerously close to the topic, fine with knowing Kyung saw through him. Everything was fine as long as they didn't talk about it and Jiho kept having quiet breakdowns in the privacy of his own, admittedly, rather messed up head. Everything was fine as long as the replies blinked on the screen of his phone, as long as he had his weekly fix and didn't try to mess with what he considered one of the most precious relationships he had in his life.

He just had to fix the bass line. Easy as that.

***

Jiho rode the sine wave of frustration for the rest of the day, shuffling through the backlog of self-appointed tasks his planner had accumulated. There was no point in going back to the studio now that Kyung had dragged him out, and he'd been running on empty as it was, it would do him well to unwind. A message from Hyoseob said something about a jazz-hop night at Cakeshop and Jiho agreed without much deliberation. Hyoseob was low-maintenance and fun, and besides it wouldn't hurt to have somebody else listen to his sorry attempts at... whatever it was.

He went to the salon and annoyed his nail tech for a while, sent Jihoon some pics of himself getting pedicure and thoroughly enjoyed the whiny horrified audio messages that assaulted him in response. The next stop was a sound tech lab in Yeongdeungpo-gu someone had recommended to him some time ago. Jiho was a firm believer in division of labour and usually left the intricate technical stuff to people who were qualified for this kind of shit, but an hour or two spent going through the mics, twisting and untwisting the cables, playing with a drum machine, sampling the amps seemed like a solid distraction. The phone lit up with messages from time to time, none that merited immediate response, but Jiho kept it in his line of sight and jumped a bit with every 'plink'.

"Homegirl's blowing you off, huh?" said the sound tech with a long, melancholic face as he hunched over the DAW which looked like a spaceship console.

Jiho blinked at him, caught off balance, and the tech nodded at his phone.

"You're twitchy," he said in the way of explanation. "Must be one hell of a lady."

Jiho imagined Minho's possible reaction to being called a lady and went into a slightly hysterical coughing fit. All the things he'd been wanting to say bunched up in his throat and clawed to get to the surface, but this was neither time nor place to confess the awkward and unwieldy something Jiho used to think of as a harmless crush before it festered and grew inside of him like a swarm of malignant cells and set out to sabotage his higher nervous function. Like his asthma wasn't enough. Jiho's face grew red from the exertion, and he grabbed for his bag just in case. The inhaler had to be somewhere inside.

"You okay there?" the tech at least had the decency to seem worried. "Need anything?"

"'m fine," Jiho managed, wheezing. "Just, you know. Startled me. A bit."

"Sorry, man. Anyway, nobody's here gonna blab or something." He mimicked zipping his mouth. "Client's privilege."

"I'm not even a client yet," Jiho pointed out. The tech snorted and went back to his space console.

"Yeah, then maybe you can stop cradling that Brikasti like it's your firstborn."

Jiho looked at the reverb he's been fondling and clutched the stainless steel box to his chest harder. The change of subject was obvious, and not for the first time Jiho thought he had to seem really pitiful if random strangers felt compelled to offer him such easy outs.

"Over my dead body, dude! This baby's coming with me."

"That's what I thought."

Three hours later Jiho made a list of all the shit that caught his eye and ear, told the sales clerk to bill the company and called the studio guys to give them the good news. The Brikasti he took with him, like he said he would, looking forward to Hyoseob's face going through a whole range of funny contortions before he succumbed and dragged Jiho off to test the thing personally.

There was still some time left until Seoul went into night mode properly and the streets lit with neon, cancelling the stars in the deep-blue sky above the city. He drove home for a change of clothes and a shower. The phone's obscure black screen taunted him from where it sat in the cradle. It would've been so easy to make a call, spin a story, play Minho's loyal heart, take advantage of his inherent kindness and a tendency to fuss over Jiho's unhealthy habits. It would've been so easy to allow himself a brief respite from the gnawing, pervasive feeling of loneliness, completely unfounded and ludicrous as it was, enjoy the uneasy comfort Minho's presence granted him: comfort he took in talking to Minho, his brief touches, and the unease born from keeping his own ugly secret and the necessity to watch every word, unless the secret spilled like horrible mess of bloody viscera and disjointed sounds refusing to meld into proper beat right into Minho's unsuspecting hands. Jiho'd never been one for keeping secrets, but now there was this tender, hot ache in his chest and it meant having nothing to hide would be infinitely worse at this point.

***

Jiho slipped through the Cakeshop's door way past the time the first guest of the evening was supposed to start the set. 

They toned down the angry red light for the occasion and the tiny space was awash with soothing violets and blues. People were bopping quietly to the jazzy beat and Jiho squeezed past the bar to the furthest table in the corner, up on a small platform.

Hyoseob himself was nursing a beer, but when Jiho fell in the chair, he pushed a tall glass of iced water in his direction.

"Here, enjoy," he said, wrinkling his nose, like Jiho's insistence on staying sober during the intense stretches of production was something not only incomprehensible but a step shy of offensive.

"Thanks."

Jiho took a long sip and looked around at the DJ's deck. The guy at the spinning table was a new face, someone Jiho'd never seen before.

"So, who's here today? Shimmy's still in service right?"

"Yeah. Donghoon-hyung's going up later, and Soriheda was on the flyers. And I heard," Hyoseob's eyes sparkled as he leaned across the table to share his exclusive information with Jiho, "Simo's gonna make an appearance."

Jiho whistled. That was impressive indeed. Getting Simo to show up required some serious dedication.

"He's gonna decimate the place. Remember him and Mood Schoola? God, that night was lit!"

"Jazzyfact would wipe the floor with them," Hyoseob protested.

"Yeah, you keep telling yourself that."

"You got something against Donghoon-hyung?" Hyoseob puffed up and Jiho waved a hand.

"Nah, relax," He slid the earplugs across the table and scrolled the library for the last version of the file. "Here, something I wanted to show you before they serve the main dish."

Hyoseob raised an eyebrow, but stuck the earplugs in and nodded for Jiho to hit 'play'. Some time later he pulled the earplugs and chewed his lips for a while, tapping the glass with his index finger.

"Sounds shitty, right?"

Hyoseob shrugged.

"Yeah, thought so." Jiho sighed. "That bass line's driving me crazy."

"What bass line? Did I miss one?"

"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, asshole."

"Hey, come on. Don't eat yourself over it." Hyoseob scratched his chin. "The vibe's pretty good and that string sample is really sticky. You just gotta relax, go back to the beginning, you know? Like, you know what this one's about, right?"

Now, wasn't that a good question.

"Well, sort of," Jiho said glumly and crunched on an ice-cube. A burst of coldness numbed his tongue and the words came out slow and unsure. "I just don't have... you know, the whole... picture?"

Hyoseob's face scrunched in disbelief which made him look like a frog even more than usual.

"The beat's ninety percent done and you don't have the whole picture? Seriously?"

Jiho felt his ears flush red-hot.

"Oh, fuck off."

Something in his voice must've made Hyoseob pause and reconsider whatever he was going to say. Jiho's knee jiggled to the rhythm of the brass section - wow, the new kid really pulled all the stops for this set, didn't he? - and hit the underside of the table making the glasses jump. Hyoseob swore and grabbed for his beer, then sat back in his chair and gave Jiho the stink eye.

"Come on, chill," he shook his head, took a long drink. Jiho gnawed at the thick neon-pink plastic straw. What he wouldn't give to get plastered right now, honestly.

"But you have the idea then? The image? What's your starting point?" When it came to writing process, Hyoseob was like a dog with a bone. The boundaries of personal and professional just went 'poof' from his mind, as if creativity pardoned everything and put whatever you said under the seal of confession. And there he was, Shin Hyoseob, a shitty, nosy priest of the Holy Church of Rhythm and Blues with his air of impatient inquisitiveness, waiting for you to spill your guts.

What was it though? Initially Jiho had a vague idea of a self-reflective thing, something mellow, pondering. It wasn't like he hadn't accumulated enough baggage to start balancing the books. His life hadn't been all smooth sailing, he'd met his fair share of turbulence and was pretty much immune to upheavals, considering more often than not he was the one initiating the change. He planned, he schemed, he walked for as long as he could and when the road allowed it he broke into a run and eventually soared. Jiho knew how to count his blessings, he knew the sense of accomplishment and the happiness it brought, and he promised himself to never let go of this feeling. That part was easy.

The hard part was being blindsided by this... thing that grew and grew inside of him, twisted into a thorny vine around his lungs. He couldn't even point out that one specific day when he woke up and there it was: Minho's simple words, his intricate silence. The way Minho closed himself off when he read something or wrote and rewrote the bars for the thousandth time in the bluish cold light of the laptop's screen, the way he smiled when Jiho said something stupid, or frowned when Jiho let him listen to a new beat. The way he touched Jiho, so very carefully, his hands alighting on Jiho's shoulders and back like little birds. The way he was always there but wasn't, the warm light of his capricious attention, and the sudden chilly draft of its absence. Something delicate squeezed Jiho's heart and he had to clutch at the sleeves of his hoodie to calm down, had to force himself to breathe.

"So? What's your deal, Jiho, honestly? Something deep, huh?"

"A fucking asthma attack," he said and ignored Hyoseob's confused eyebrow dance in favour of fishing more ice cubes from the glass. "Forget it."

Before Hyoseob could start in on him again, the phone in Jiho's jeans vibrated in a familiar one-two-three pattern. Jiho fished it out of the pocket with cold wet fingers and cursed when the screen refused to activate. Eventually though it yielded to his frantic requests and a series of white bubbles popped up.

 _how's that beat going?_ and _check this out_ were followed by a video file. Jiho bit his lip and pressed 'play'. Minho, swaddled in countless layers of t-shirts and sweatshirts, grinned at him tiredly and then his face disappeared from the view. The camera moved around haphazardly for a couple of seconds, and when it settled, Jiho saw a weird, ancient-looking synth with a bunch of colourful cables plugged in and a flat keyboard. Minho's hands moved over the switches, tinkering with different faders, hesitantly plugging in jack after jack, and then the sound came in - absolutely weird and like nothing Jiho'd ever heard. The nebulous melodies took some time to condense into something solid, and then Minho's hand covered the camera and Jiho went back to the Cakeshop's table and Donghoon-hyung's familiar improvisation. He blinked owlishly at the screen and sent a series of question marks.

_it's a Buchla!!!_

Jiho could almost see Minho vibrating in excitement as he typed it.

_where did ya get this thing?_

_went to a club last night, met this one guy. crazy good_

Jiho’s face was doing something complicated and not exactly for public consumption, so he huddled over the phone drawing his knees up.

 _cool_ , he typed, _glad you're having fun_

There, and it wasn't like he lied. He was glad Minho found yet another object to satisfy his endless curiosity.

_btw hyung r u eatin well?_

Well, that was... unexpected.

 _sure i am_ , Jiho snorted. _got a fridge full of stuff_

A picture of his woefully underpopulated refrigerator blinked into existence on the screen with a skeptical emoji stuck on top

_this one? or u have a secret fridge u never told me abt?_

What the fuck.

***

The elevator crawled up from the parking lot, and the fluorescent light threw every angle and metallic seam inside in sharp relief making Jiho feel caged. The subtle drone grated on his nerves and he cursed, biting on his knuckles. He was sure he'd avoided breaking any traffic laws on the way home, but also pretty sure he had left Hyoseob sitting there in the middle of a conversation with no explanation whatsoever. Well, Hyoseob could join the list of people Jiho had to apologize to after he recovered enough to execute basic social functions. In the meantime, his first priority was to school his face into something more or less appropriate for the situation. It was normal. Totally, absolutely okay.

Mino hadn't called him first for months, their schedules were overlapping all over the place, it had been twenty four days since Jiho saw him last. He thought back to the time when that didn't bother him, when he wasn't acutely aware of the way time dragged when they were apart - those, now seemingly immeasurable, stretches, where he didn't know whether Minho was okay, what bothered him, who made him smile, who changed him, who nurtured or starved him - that blissful, frivolous ignorance that served Jiho for so long as an impenetrable shield only to disappear in the blink of an eye and leave him trembling, naked and helpless.

No. Nothing about this was okay and neither was Jiho.

He opened the door quietly and stepped inside. It was dark, but further down the hall a clear-cut square of yellow light fell on the floor from the kitchen's doorway. Jiho toed off the sneakers and hanged the car keys on a hook next to the windbreaker.

"Hey," he called, leaning against the wall and waited, with his breath caught, until Minho appeared in the kitchen doorway. "Wanna tell me what this is about? Are you trying to give your old hyung a heart attack?"

Minho shrugged, smiling, his eyes unreadable in the shadows, and his silhouette looked so natural against the backdrop of Jiho's apartment, Jiho could almost imagine this was something they did every day.

"I figured you wouldn't mind if I brought you dinner after Kyung-hyung sent me that pic."

Oh.

"It must be a couple months old," the air left Jiho's stressed lungs is a big 'whoosh'. He told himself the pricking in the corners of his eyes was fatigue and not this bitter, bone-dry disappointment. "I was a bitch to him this morning, you know how he gets."

"And yet your fridge is pretty empty," Minho looked away and rocked on his heels. "Look... I'm sorry I dropped by without warning. It's just... I know how you get, too."

Jiho rubbed his palms across his face, tried to get a hold of himself, but the controls turned slippery all at once and he couldn't dial down both his chagrin and sick, inappropriate satisfaction at knowing Minho cared enough to come.

"You okay, hyung?" Minho sounded worried - and a lot closer than he did a minute ago. Jiho looked up and forced a smile.

"Oh, I'm excellent. More than excellent, I'm fucking splendid!" The words kept coming so fast, rolled off his tongue. Jiho watched himself babble from some muted, infinite distance. "Gimme a cup of coffee, and I'll make a hit to end all hits!"

He raised his hands to bulwark the space around his weak body and even weaker heart, but Minho took his wrists in his usual gentle hold and Jiho's throat closed. Minho looked indulgent, almost pitying. Since when did he grow up enough to look at Jiho like that anyway? It's not like Jiho was that much shorter, but somewhere between Stardom dorms and SMTM's auditions Minho had filled out, settled into his body, and now Jiho, with his skinny frame, felt insignificant next to him, like Minho could easily pick him up, or hold him down, and that was a bad, bad line of thinking.

"You look like you're about to keel over, hyung," Minho tugged him forward, until Jiho's forehead met his shoulder. The smell of cotton and something dry, electric - the usual smell of a recording studio - was supposed to be soothing and familiar, but Jiho's tired brain was too confused to process the cues properly and instead fired off weird little signals, which burst like summer fireworks under Jiho's skin: his neck suddenly itched, a spot of tender pain pulsed under his knee, an army of tiny invisible ants crawled all over his arms in random directions.

Minho's hands swept along his spine and Jiho whined a little: protesting or asking for more, he couldn't even say himself.

"I got you some seolleongtang, okay?" Minho's throat vibrated as he spoke and Jiho wanted nothing more than to fall asleep right there, with lips pressed to this vital, most vulnerable part of him.

"I want japchae," he mumbled just to be contrary and felt Minho's short laugh with his whole body.

"Yeah, I figured. Grandma Nam says hi, by the way."

Seven years ago they used to hang around the Gwangjang market after training almost every day: the food was cheap and the ahjummas generous with their portions. All of them adored Minho, but Grandma Nam had a soft spot for Jiho’s brashness and served japchae with a ruffle of his hair or a squeeze to his cheek. Her hands were rough, skin cracked, but always, always so warm. Jiho was going to cry for real. Any minute now.

"Oh, fuck you," he said instead and flopped against Minho even more, shaking with laughter. "I'm not gonna praise you, your pretty head's big enough already."

"If you say so, hyung."

"Yes, I say so."

"Sure, hyung," Minho patted him on the back. "Sure."

"Come on then," Jiho raised his head and looked into Minho's bright, warm eyes. The usual pin-prick of want-want-want was almost imperceptible this time. Maybe he was finally getting used to it, and the thought didn't scare him as much as it should've. "Since you're being such a considerate dongsaeng today, carry me to the kitchen. The japchae isn't gonna eat itself."

***

The food made everything a little better. Jiho polished off a bowl of noodles and stole half of the seolleongtang from Minho. Minho didn't mind, said he'd already eaten at Gwangjang. He played Jiho more of those unsettling Buchla samples and talked his head off trying to explain how it worked. Jiho could see how the thing might be useful, it was basically a giant palette of sounds and would lend itself well to making an original samples library, which was something he wanted to try eventually.

They settled on the couch in the living room and Jiho ran through all eighteen samples of the beat one by one. Minho slid on the floor at some point and laid on his back twitching his legs and shoulders to the music, freestyling in some nonexistent language, a horrible mix of Korean, Japanese and English, to try and make sense of what Jiho attempted to create. Eventually he sat cross-legged and started on the stretches: the same he used to do even back in school. Jiho watched his unhurried, flowing movements and tried to imagine him as a gangly teenager, unsure and awkward in his own body, but the image of this Minho, a little absent-minded, but always solid and comfortable, superimposed on anything Jiho's whimsy was capable of.

"You ever had growing pains?" he asked, curious.

Minho locked his hands above his head and leaned forward. The collar of his sleeveless shirt dipped even lower, and Jiho looked away. In summer Minho's skin turned a deeper, golden hue of sourwood honey Jiho's mother insisted on adding to his tea when he was a kid. Apparently, it was good for his allergies. Jiho wondered whether Minho's skin had the same distinctive anise taste.

"Yeah, mom always gave me hot water bottles to sleep..." Minho paused, seemingly weighing whatever he was going to say next in his mind, and eventually continued with a little bashful shrug. "Hugging someone actually helped more, but Dana said she was, you know..." he rolled his eyes and made air quotes with his fingers, "too old for this and that I was annoying."

"You probably were."

"Not you too, hyung," Minho gave him a look full of soft reproach and pouted. Cute little son of a bitch.

"I wish I was there," Jiho winced and barely caught the hand that flew up to cover his truly, unbelievably big fucking mouth.

Minho stopped in the middle of a stretch all bewildered. Well, Jiho'd always prided himself on owning up to his verbal fuck-ups.

"I would've coddled you properly. I bet you were a whiny kid."

"You know, hyung," Minho looked up from behind the messy fringe and bewilderment slowly gave place to a sly smile. "You could probably use a hug too."

"Are you implying your esteemed hyung is whiny?" Jiho snorted. "Where does this insolence come from? I don't remember raising you like this."

Minho smiled even wider and shrugged. The shirt slipped off his shoulder, and Jiho's heart did its customary skip, fluttered at the base of his throat. He hunched up coughing all the words he couldn't possibly say into his knees.

"See?" Minho gathered him into his arms and shook a little, swayed from side to side, rubbing wide, sure circles into Jiho's back. The tips of his fingers grazed the skin where Jiho's t-shirt slipped up scattering goosebumps all the way up to Jiho's neck, and Jiho hunched his shoulders even more, tried to catch his breath. "You've worked hard, hyung. Gotta give yourself some rest, right?"

"The beat," Jiho said rather nonsensically, since there was no sense to be found anywhere while Minho touched him with such infinite care, like Jiho was something special. God, he was so tired.

"It's gonna come to you," Minho left one hand on Jiho's back and put the other beneath his knees. Jiho obediently slumped against him. His eyelids were getting so heavy, and the rational part of him faded more and more with every second leaving an empty white space behind his eyes and high frequency ringing in his ears. "In the morning. Let's get you to bed, okay?"

"I don't sleep well," Jiho said. "Recently, I mean. I haven’t..."

"It's okay," Minho gathered him closer and stood up slowly. "I'll stay with you. Like before, remember?"

Jiho remembered. He remembered all too well the roach-infested basement, old stuffy futons, the permeating concrete cold, the damp smell settling in his clothes if he left it in a heap on the floor for more than a couple of hours. The days were exhausting, but the nights were more so, because they were also lonely. Jiho used to shamelessly manipulate Minho into staying with him a couple nights a week at least: lured him in with new music, artsy movies, a promise of snacks. Minho slept like a log, conked out next to Jiho and threw his legs over him, mumbled in his sleep and was so much better than the old cranky heater Jiho brought with him from home.

He thought Minho would stay with him forever. He was so young then.

The pillows and sheets were cold under his back when Minho lowered him carefully on the bed and tried to extricate himself from Jiho's grasp.

"No," Jiho held onto him even tighter.

"I'm just gonna kill the sound, hyung," Minho's voice was patient, with a hint of a smile. He probably thought Jiho was ridiculous. He didn't know the half of it.

"Fuck the sound," Jiho pressed his forehead to Minho's collarbone until it ached.

"I said, I'd stay with you," the bed dipped under his weight, but Jiho's arms refused to unlock. He was shaking.

"Would you?" he managed and blindly searched for the pulse in Minho's throat with his lips. His body was revolting, and he couldn't string two thoughts together to stop it. "Would you?"

Minho's breath was heavy and hot in his ear and he made a sudden aborted sound. Jiho let himself have a taste of his skin. It was as good, as he'd ever imagined. It was better. Jiho kissed a warm hollow below his ear, traced a line of tiny adoring kisses along his jaw and licked at the corner of his mouth. He kept his eyes stubbornly closed, and the darkness was chilling but also merciful.

Minho's hand found the back of his head, clenched in his hair and Jiho squeezed his eyes even harder preparing for the stinging pain of being yanked off, torn apart, anything, but Minho breathed something into his trembling mouth and laid a careful deliberate kiss on his upper lip, licked deeper, and then pressed Jiho back into the pillows with his whole body.

Jiho drew a big gulping breath and said: _stay, stay, stay_ , and never gave him a chance to answer.

***

He opened his eyes in the gray light of the early morning.

Beneath his palm Minho's abdomen rose and fell, he was deeply asleep still, his mouth half-open and lips dry. Jiho nuzzled closer, and let the slow beat of Minho's heart roll over him, like a wave, washing away the sand and the seaweed, clearing the rubbish out of the shadowy tight corners of his mind.

The audio system in the living room still played the unfinished beat, the sound muffled, as if coming from the bottom of the of sea. The kicks were okay, the gayageum crooned lazily, drifting in and out of the synth melody, and finally the weird syncopated rhythm of Minho's heart filled the emptiness in Jiho's beat like his long, smooth body filled Jiho's arms and his fickle, always welcome presence filled and grounded Jiho's chaotic life. 

He looked at the window where the midnight hues slowly gave way to pinks and oranges, pressed his lips to Minho’s shoulder and let a triumphant smile spread across his face until his cheeks ached with it.

It was going to be a fucking chart-buster.


End file.
